


Better Than Most Things

by count_chocula



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Another Repost, Fluff, M/M, The fluffiest kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/count_chocula/pseuds/count_chocula
Summary: “So...how good are you at picking my brain?”“What?”You say it breathlessly because he’s smiling at you, upside down with his ridiculous, pompous hair fanned out on the floor like peacock feathers.“How good, Byers?”





	Better Than Most Things

“So...how good are you at picking my brain?”

 

“What?”

 

You say it breathlessly because he’s smiling at you, upside down with his ridiculous, pompous hair fanned out on the floor like peacock feathers. 

 

“How good, Byers?”

 

He doesn’t repeat himself entirely, but you know what he means. It brings a smile to your own face, and you push back from your desk — where you’ve been disassembling an old camera — and with fingers smeared with odd grease and dirt, you push your hair away from your face, and then you lean down and do the same to him. He’s got a curl of hair dipping into his eyes and that’s what you push away first. You leave behind a smudge of grease, but he still leans into your thumb like a touch starved margin release key.

 

The grin you receive for this is bright and sincere and it makes you want to laugh a bit maniacally. He makes you feel invincible with the simplest of actions, and it hurts sometimes. So, you grab his fingers and lace them with yours, and you lean down to knock your head against his. You do it softly, gently, and he blows hot air into your face while tightening his hand around yours. 

 

“So?”

 

“So, what?”

 

He’s good at getting what he wants. You lay down on your stomach and you trace the slight creases at the corner of his mouth. You count the freckles under your breath in lieu of saying something substantial, and you whisper in his ear about how lightheaded he’s making you feel just by staring at his red face. 

 

“So, tell me. Go on, Byers. I can’t stay like this forever, y’know.” 

 

It’s easy then to lean down until your mouths slot together like two different pieces of chipped glassware. He presses his lips against yours softly, then a little less soft, and it feels better than most things do. It’s an awkward angle, but you somehow make it work with him, and each time you pull away for air, he squeezes your fingers in warning, before relaxing his grip like it was what he meant to do.

 

You pull away when you notice his hand is trembling from the sustained act of his upper body hanging upside down, off of your bed. He tries to lean in again, but you press back with a grin.

 

“I’m better at that than most things.”

 

He laughs throatily, roughly, and you can tell that he’s trying hard not to see how much you affect him.

 

“I agree. Now come back to me.” 


End file.
